'There's no obligation to drink alcohol here,' Harry said, making eye contact with Maja. 'It just seems like it.'

'In fact, it's not bad,' Beate took a tiny sip. 'My father said he didn't trust people who didn't drink beer.'

The coffee pot and cup arrived in front of Harry. Beate blushed to the roots of her hair.

'I used to drink beer,' Harry said. 'I had to stop.'

Beate studied the tablecloth.

'It's the only vice I've got rid of,' Harry said. 'I smoke, lie and hold grudges.' He lifted his cup in toast. 'What do you suffer from, Lшnn? Apart from being a video junkie and remembering the face of everyone you've ever seen?'

'There's not a lot more.' She raised her glass. 'Apart from the Setesdal Twitch.'

'Is it serious?'

'Fairly. Actually, it's called Huntingdon's Disease. It's hereditary and was normal for Setesdal.'

'Why there of all places?'

'It's a…narrow dale surrounded by high fells. And a long way from anywhere.'

'I see.'

'Both my mother and father come from Setesdal and at first my mother didn't want to marry him because she thought he had an aunt with the Setesdal Twitch. My auntie would suddenly lash out with her arms, so people used to keep their distance.'

'And now you've got it?'

Beate smiled. 'My father used to tease my mother about it when I was small. Because when Dad and I played knuckles, I was so fast and hit him so hard that he thought it had to be the Setesdal Twitch. I just found it so funny I wished…I had the Twitch, but one day my mother told me you can die from Huntingdon's Disease.' She sat fidgeting with her glass.

'And the same summer I learned what death meant.'

Harry nodded to an old sailor on the neighbouring table, who didn't return the greeting. He cleared his throat: 'What about grudges? Do you suffer from them, too?'

She looked up at him. 'What do you mean?'

Harry shrugged. 'Look around you. Humanity can't survive without it. Revenge and retribution. That's the driving force for the midget who was bullied at school and later became a multi-millionaire, and the bank robber who thinks he has been short-changed by society. And look at us. Society's burning revenge disguised as cold, rational retribution-that's our profession, isn't it.'

'That's the way it has to be,' she said, avoiding his gaze. 'Society wouldn't work without punishment.'

'Yes, of course, but there's more to it than that, isn't there. Catharsis. Revenge cleanses. Aristotle wrote that the human soul is purged by the fear and compassion that tragedy evokes. It's a frightening thought that we fulfil the soul's innermost desire through the tragedy of revenge, isn't it.'

'I haven't read a lot of philosophy.' She raised her glass and took a long swig.

Harry bent his head. 'I haven't, either. I'm just trying to impress you. Down to brass tacks?'

'First some bad news,' she said. 'The reconstruction of the face behind the mask failed. Just a nose and the outline of a head.'

'And the good news?'

'The woman who was used as a hostage in the Grшnlandsleiret hold-up reckons she would recognise the robber's voice. She said it was unusually high, she'd almost thought it was a woman's.'

'Mm. Anything else?'

'Yes, I've been talking to the staff at Focus and doing some checking. Trond Grette arrived at half past two and left at around four.'

'How can you be so sure of that?'

'Because he paid for the squash court with a card when he arrived. The payment was registered at 14.34. And do you remember the stolen squash racquet? Naturally he told the staff. The person who was working the Friday shift noted down the time Grette was there. He left the centre at 16.02.

'And that was the good news?'

'No, I'm coming to it now. Do you remember the overalls Grette saw going past the fitness room?'

'With POLITI on the back?'

'I've been watching the video. It looks like there is Velcro on the front and back of the Expeditor's boiler suit.'

'Meaning?'

'If the Expeditor is the person Grette saw, he could have put the sign on the boiler suit with Velcro when he was out of range of the cameras.'

'Mm.' Harry slurped out loud.

'It might explain why no one reported seeing someone in a plain black boiler suit in the area. There were black police uniforms everywhere right after the hold-up.'

'What did they say at Focus?'

'That's the interesting part. The woman on duty in fact remembers a man in a boiler suit she took for a policeman. He raced past so she assumed he had booked a squash court or something like that.'

'So they didn't have a name?'

'No.'

'That's not exactly sexy…'

'No, but the best is to come. The reason she remembered the guy was that she thought he had to be in a special unit, or something similar, because the rest of his outfit was so Dirty Harry. He…' She paused and gave him a horrified look. 'I didn't mean to…'

'That's fine,' Harry said. 'Go on.'

Beate moved her glass, and Harry thought he detected a tiny, triumphant smile around her little mouth.

'He was wearing a half-rolled-up balaclava. And a pair of large sunglasses hiding the rest of his face. She said he was carrying a black holdall which seemed very heavy.'

Harry's coffee went down the wrong way.

***

A pair of old shoes hung by their laces from the wire stretched between the houses in Dovregata. The lights on the wire did what they could to illuminate the cobbled pavement, but it was as if the dark autumn evening had already sucked all the light out of the town. That didn't bother Harry; he could find the way between Sofies gate and Schrшder's in the pitch dark. He had done it many times.

Beate had a list of the names of people who had booked squash or aerobics at Focus at the time the man in the boiler suit had been there, and she was going to start ringing round tomorrow. If she didn't find the man, there was still a good chance that someone had been in the room when he was changing and could give a description.

Harry walked beneath the shoes on the wire. He had seen them hanging there for years and had long reconciled himself to never finding an answer to the question of how they got there.

Ali was washing the steps as Harry came to the house entrance.

'You must hate Norwegian autumns,' Harry said, wiping his feet. 'Just grime and muddy water.'

'In my hometown in Pakistan visibility was down to fifty metres because of pollution.' Ali smiled. 'All year round.'

Harry could hear a distant yet familiar sound. It was the law which states that telephones start ringing when you hear them, but you can never get to them in time. He looked at his watch. Ten. Rakel had said she would ring him at nine.

'That cellar room…' Ali began, but Harry had already taken off at full speed, leaving a Doc Martens bootprint on every fourth step.

The telephone stopped ringing as he opened the door.

He kicked off his boots. Covered his face in his hands. Went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. The number of the hotel was on a yellow Post-it on the mirror. He took the note and caught sight of the reflection of the first e-mail from S^2 MN. He had printed it out and pinned it on the wall. Old habit. In Crime Squad they always decorated the wall with pictures, letters and other leads which might help them to see a connection or trigger the subconscious in some way. Harry couldn't read the mirror reflection, but he didn't need to:

Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?

He changed his mind, went into the sitting room, switched on the TV and slumped in the wing chair. Then he got up with a jerk, went into the hallway and dialled the number.